“Get him to come and look at the body,” replied Rathbury. “He may know the man and he mayn’t. Anyway, his name and address are here, aren’t they?”
“Come along,” said Spargo. “I’ll walk there with you.”
Spargo remained in a species of brown study all the way along Tudor Street; his companion also maintained silence in a fashion which showed that he was by nature and custom a man of few words. It was not until the two were climbing the old balustrated staircase of the house in King’s Bench Walk in which Ronald Breton’s chambers were somewhere situate that Spargo spoke.
“Do you think that old chap was killed for what he may have had on him?” he asked, suddenly turning on the detective.
“I should like to know what he had on him before I answered that question, Mr. Spargo,” replied Rathbury, with a smile.
“Yes,” said Spargo, dreamily. “I suppose so. He might have had—nothing on him, eh?”
The detective laughed, and pointed to a board on which names were printed.
“We don’t know anything yet, sir,” he observed, “except that Mr. Breton is on the fourth floor. By which I conclude that it isn’t long since he was eating his dinner.”
“Oh, he’s young—he’s quite young,” said Spargo. “I should say he’s about four-and-twenty. I’ve met him only—”
At that moment the unmistakable sounds of girlish laughter came down the staircase. Two girls seemed to be laughing—presently masculine laughter mingled with the lighter feminine.